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I am looking back, and I see her small form sitting on a low stool in front of the shelves of books. She is pulling them out with her child hands and noticing their covers behind the thickness of her glasses. She is happy in the surroundings of all of these words that lead her into other worlds where she can get lost and found in the imaginations of their authors. She is dreaming amidst the quiet of the library and the smell of old paper books. I am the only one who notices her sitting there in the midst of her reverie. I am the only one who shares her quiet adventure of someday seeing her name on the spine of a book. I am looking at the little girl, me.

The morning is humid, but the temperatures are cool enough to keep a good pace. My headphones are in, but I don't notice the music that is playing. I begin to think as I so often do during a run, and my thoughts begin to organize themselves as if I were writing their story.

My hands are clean now. I took care of that last night as I watched the dirt swirl inside the porcelain sink before it was swallowed down through the pipes. I looked long into the art of it, finite bits of Cristo Rey being washed away by water I can't drink. I'm amused. I can't remember the last time I was so dirty.

There are some particles still clinging to me that can't be seen. I breathed them in and they nestled themselves down close to my heart. I feel them there, a longing.

Our group of nearly thirty boards the yellow bus and we travel through the paved streets of Nicaragua. The blur of skinny cows and smoking volcanoes passes by our periphery. I am quietly lost in my thoughts and curiosity. I welcome the experience.

The bus slows and sways into a sharp right turn as it heads onto a dirt covered road spotted by its own display of ditches. We wobble our way through the overhang of sparse trees as we stir up dust clouds behind us. Though it is the rainy…

Speaking truthfully, I don't believe in luck. When God is above and around and inside of you, you tend not to see life as something left to chance. There is a strong and righteous right hand holding all of the intricacies of your days lived out, planned in detail before you took your first breath.

Five years ago a baby was born somewhere in the country of Nicaragua. No doubt she cried out after those first moments of being pushed into the world. I don't know who caught her and wiped her clean. I don't know who swaddled her tiny body and satisfied her curious mouth. I don't know if she was held closely with whispers of how she was the most wonderful child ever to be born. I don't know.

What I know is that time moved her here to New Life Nicaragua Orphanage, and now she sits awkwardly on my lap as I hold her brokenness. I wonder how many moments were the witness to her tears. How long has she endured the pain of rejection and abuse? How many nights did her…